


A Three-Way Perspective

by SongsofSamael



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A little bit of blood, Action, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, following the Istanbul incident, which I might write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongsofSamael/pseuds/SongsofSamael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some fluffy action-thriller about three spies and their pursuit of justice--or whatever passes for justice in their books. A small one-shot exploring the dynamic of their different perspectives and character insight because these are my ot3 trash babies. I very much ship them as Illya/Gaby (how can you not?), Illya/Napoleon, and as a set. I also headcanon Napoleon as aromantic but that may just be my roommate & I who agree on that.<br/>This is getting wordy. I'm over-explaining. Please enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Three-Way Perspective

"Peril," Napoleon says patiently, "if you don't stop backseat shooting, I'm going to have to bench you."

The enormous Russian bristles beside him ominously in the dark. Napoleon neither tenses nor turns when the hulking thug swaggers closer. Well, not so much swaggers as he does robotically jerk toward him. Illya moves in clicks and whirs, always gauging, always methodical and stiff. He lacks Napoleon's fluidity or Gaby's dexterity. What he is is a force of nature similar to that of an avalanche. If Napoleon had to dub himself a natural disaster, he'd pick a hurricane. There was something glamorous about being a hurricane, wasn't there? Or maybe it was all that hot air he related to. 

Gaby, meanwhile, was probably an earthquake, considering how grounded she was.

"There's four men ahead of us in the next alley," she says, right on cue from the window above the two men skulking in the shadows (well, Napoleon skulked--Illya loomed). "Five more on the rooftops." Napoleon glances heavenward, not in prayer, but in contemplation (and isn't that the same thing at the end of the day anyhow?). Paris glitters and hums dimly, still recovering not twenty years following nearly being burnt to the ground. Doing arguably better, though, all things considered, than a pile of ash would. Napoleon adjusts the silencer on his gun with gloved hands and purses his lips. 

"Have they spotted us officially?" He asks, in the same pragmatic, smarmy tone he uses for just about everything. Gaby shakes her head, the pistol in her hands small enough to be concealed by a handbag (which she still handles somewhat awkwardly, and complains often over the loss of her toolbag). "They don't really know what they're looking for, then," Napoleon murmurs, mostly to himself. Illya shifts back on his feet and looks around, his jaw predictably clicking. Long fingers twitch as the KGB agent ("former", but still arguably KGB at his core) watches the shadows for signs of movement. Light lances across the sharp angles of Napoleon's face and the thief hums noncommittally. 

"Gaby, can you shimmy down here real quick?"

"Are you out of your mind?" She counters, mimicking Napoleon's tone to a T. He's almost proud of her. Or he would be, were he not so exasperated with her inability to "be a team player" ("rich, coming from the man whose last name is literally 'Solo'--" "da, 'I work better alone' Solo, which isn't even true--" "Can we please get back to the moment, gentlemen"). "I've a better shot at getting us help if I keep the high ground."

"I just--need an illusion," mutters Napoleon, looking back up and around at Illya directly. The blond furrows his brows, Down the alley, a dog barks, and feet patter on wet cobbles. Gaby tenses, her gun at the ready. Illya tenses, hands balling to fists. 

"Gaby," Solo says in a soft voice, "creep back in through that window. Douse the light. Wait for a signal." He didn't specify which signal. She'd know. Gaby always knew. She was pretty handy that way. And a few other ways, too.

She knows better than to sass, this time, as she slips out of sight between the sill and the panes, the light extinguishing itself without so much as a sound. The alleyway is bleached by moonlight, leaving Illya and Napoleon alone in semidarkness. The Russian's closeness is stifling, a wall of cold beyond which Napoleon is certain lies, well. Certain death. He chances a glance up at Illya's stoic face; the Russian's eyes elsewhere, scanning the general area. Napoleon, testing the sturdiness of a wine crate abandoned in the alley with his foot, hears the footsteps coming closer. There's a limited window in which he can work effectively, and that window is not the one Gaby just exited stage right through.

"Peril," Napoleon half-breathes, barely speaking, "I'm going to do something you aren't going to like." Illya, used to this by now, braces himself and looks back down at Napoleon--who is much closer than before, his angular face made even sharper by the emphasis of shadows. Only his hungry eyes, sapphires in shade, are truly visible. 

"What is it," Illya grouses, hands at the ready. "You are going to use me as springboard again?" He looks up at the window dryly. "Your shoulders will not fit through the--" And then there is leather on either side of his face, warmth under said leather, and, most shockingly, soft lips against his own.

Illya's back finds the damp wall of the Parisian alleyway and he nearly chokes Napoleon, his callused hand jerking up to flip their positions. Napoleon, feet now free of any crate (or the ground, for that matter) dangles precariously, his toes not so much as scraping the cobbles.

"What," snarls Illya, "do you think you are DOING?" Napoleon has the grace to shoot Illya a wry look around his efforts to break out of the chokehold, motioning emphatically to the ironclad grip the Commie has on his throat. Illya, limbs trembling, loosens his fingers enough to let Napoleon breathe ("which is more than you should bargain for in the future, Cowboy"). 

"Can you just trust me?" Napoleon rattles out, coughing quietly. Illya, eyes wide, lets the other man slip down the wall gradually, keeping a hand around his throat for good measure.

"I do not trust a man who does not share his plans with his team." Napoleon shoots Illya another look of complete distaste, pushing at his unmoving hand. 

"Do you ever look in the mirror, or are you afraid you'll break it?" Illya's other hand rises, curling into a fist. "Whoa--okay, okay," Napoleon puts up two hands in apology. The voices and footfalls are nearly on them. "Just--trust me. One more time. I promise." 

Illya's head is a whirl of muffled sound and ringing light. The alleyway is a blur of wet stone and dull lamps, dancing in and out of his focus. There is a distant need to fight or flee urgently pressing under his breastbone, trying to choke him in the way he'd tried choking Solo before. The kiss seemed--unnecessary. It was brash, Solo's typical brand of amusement at the expense of others. And Solo had expensive taste when it came to his entertainment. He never did anything by halves. But more oft than not, his hare-brained schemes paid off in the end. Trust.

Trust was not something Illya often took into account. Trust was not something Illya allowed with ease. He did not so much as trust himself, especially not now, especially not when he wanted to level the alley and rip out the bricks of the buildings with his bare hands. It was, quite honestly, a miracle that he did nothing to Solo now other than stare at him.

"--And when they come our way, I need you to perform," Napoleon was saying. Illya blinks, coming back to the moment. "Peril," Napoleon adds steadily, snapping his fingers. "Still with us?" Illya cocks his head, listening. The alley has gone quiet.

"Three," Napoleon says, his hand on his gun. "Two," Illya is still catching up, filling in the gaps of what he missed when the world briefly went away and he retreated into his own head. He was Illya Kuryakin, KGB agent, who wore his father's watch and his mantle of shame. He was in Paris to stop a ring of Nazi art thieves; old rivals of a one Napoleon Solo, whose efforts in smuggling Van Goghs and Manets were unrivaled. He was here with Gaby--precious and terrifying Gaby, who bandaged his hands when he beat inanimate objects into debris, who chided him on his inability to dance or let go. He was also here with Napoleon Solo; ten parts hair products and ninety parts incredibly obnoxious. 

And there was a good chance that, at any given point, all of them could die. 

"One," Solo breathes, raising his gun, preparing to activate plan B. Illya, seeming to ignore this, reaches out to push Naoleon back against the alley wall as footsteps return, joined by gruff German expletives. 

"What--" Napoleon starts to ask, but Illya returns Napoleon's kiss, his influence, to him as the thief would a stolen item or a perfect replica. It's a gradual process. Illya knows he is cold, knows he is distant. He has to struggle to keep in contact for longer than a couple of seconds. His hard, scarred hand shifts from Napoleon's throat up to his face and cradles, keeps it close. Keeps it safe. He can feel the thin line healing where Solo cut his face shaving earlier when he caught sight of Gaby dancing in the mirror this morning. He can taste the elaborate Scotch and mint combo that lingers on Napoleon's tongue as the man sinks back against the wall, and Illya, in turn, sinks against him. Solo smells good; the bastard, he smells good despite being on the go from 7 o'clock this morning to midnight tonight. He smells like musk and cinnamon and something vaguely like truffle oil. It's earthy and intoxicating and Illya wonders what the kiss is supposed to accomplish. 

But Solo has a plan.

Solo always has a plan.

("This is poor retelling. I should be telling this. Rarely do I believe you even have a plan, Cowboy." "I'm inclined to agree with Illya. You don't seem much like the precognitive sort." "This is rude. You're both being incredibly rude right now." "It's good for you. Builds character.")

The four men in dark clothing glide by like wraiths. Illya, blending in with the wall and effectively shielding Napoleon, breaks to breathe. Solo's eyes are closed, his face a bit dazed ("It was not. I was perfectly unaffected by that B- kiss"). Illya waits, his heart in his throat, strangely calm. This is not what he is used to. This is not, by any stretch of his imagination, what he is used to. He is used to withholding from everything--alcohol, pleasure, even sleep if necessary. Napoleon, meanwhile, is used to spoiling himself to the point of physical and luxurious perfection. 

The two men, nearly direct opposites of one another, remain motionless. For all accounts and purposes, they might as well be statues on the walls.

"Hell of a kiss, Peril," Napoleon smiles. "Where've you been all my life?"

"Not nearly far enough away," Illya responds tersely--doing everything he can not to look at Solo directly. Napoleon chuckles, checking the time on Illya's father's watch. They must wait approximately six minutes, by his count, for this to actually work.

It *seems* to have worked, this invisible collision of passion and deception. Patience is key, however. They're nearly in the clear. 

Were it not for the fifth man neither of them saw coming; who heard them, it would've gone spectacularly well ("I blame you, Cowboy" "Give it a rest, Peril").

The roar of a German gatling and angry Deutsch speech sends Napoleon flying over the crates and rolling for the ground. Illya snarls and flattens against the wall's minor bulge, ducking into an alcove to shoot from around a corner.

"Gaby!" Napoleon shouts, swiveling into a small side-alley, legs pumping, "that'd be the signal!"

Gaby swings back up to the window with her rifle loaded. The pistol she exchanged it for glints in the moonlight, ready in case of any intruders, though the door has been secured. The old restaurant is a labyrinth of steel doors and heavy counters, for which she is inherently grateful. She spies Illya's crown of golden hair and aims directly left of his nearest ear, catching one man in the throat with a bullet and the next with a kneecap blow. Illya, having jumped horrifically at the first shot, shoots Gaby a withering stare before stalking off in search of Solo and the pursuing thieves. Gaby slings the strap over her shoulder, pockets her pistol, and thrusts open the window. It's time to move, not time to say sorry.

("For the record, I did say sorry. Later." "For the record, I still dislike this casual attitude you take with guns. Presently; and likely later.")

Gaby, used to carrying the heft and bulk of chop-shop items, has no problem squirreling the rifle up to the roof by means of the fire escape. She hangs from ladder to ladder with the gun on her back, using the butt of the rifle to break the nose of the first man she encounters waiting for her there. He drops like a stone into the dark and Gaby flips her narrow frame up and over the lip of the roof, rifle and pistol at the ready. 

Napoleon is there, wiping blood off his face with a fine silk handkerchief. He's bruised his knuckles, but the remaining men seem to be unconscious. Or at least, the ones they'd counted before. Paris still seems to be crawling with an infestation of Nazi filth. Their team, while not exterminators, had little to no trouble disposing of the pests they came across. Gaby feels her shoulders slacken with relief she didn't know she could feel at the sight of *her* thief, his fine face cut and his suit rumpled, but otherwise being no worse for the wear. 

"Where's Illya?" She asks quietly. As if on cue, up from the North side of the roof rises a behemoth in red with a bag on his back. Luckily for them, it's not a German, and disappointingly, not Santa. ("Shut up, Solo, it was not funny the first time, it is not funny now." "C'mon, Peril, it's a *little* funny").

"I get the art," Illya grunts, depositing the bag on the rooftop. Gaby grins as Napoleon goes ashen with dismay at the dismissal of priceless treasures. Illya sniffs, wiping a streak of crimson from his face. There's a moment of silence.

"...That," Napoleon manages to joke after said moment, "must be a first for you." Illya's eyes narrow, and he starts across the roof toward Napoleon. 

"You wish to discuss firsts for me?" There's that fist again. "Killing a man would not be one."

"Boys," Gaby says, stepping between them and putting one hand out for each of her fellow agents. "Enough. It's been a long night. But this was a successful mission. We should be celebrating. Not tearing one another apart."

"What's the difference?" Illya asks sourly, though Gaby can tell he secretly means it. There's always a thread of naivete woven into Illya's off-putting demeanor. Her hand she raises in his direction settles on his chest instead, and he stills, cooling beneath her touch. Napoleon gets one of Gaby's customary cheek-swats, before she shakes her head.

"Come on," she says, using Napoleon's shoulder to brace herself as she props herself on tip-toes to kiss Illya's cheek. "There's a hotel shower with each of our names on it." 

"That's unfortunate," says Solo. "Seeing as that'd blow our cover." He earns himself another swat from Gaby and a glower from Illya.

They leave to wash the blood off one another, make their own messy variety of love, and fall asleep in each other's arms, too tired to retreat to their own rooms. 

They'd do it all again tomorrow, gunfire and grunt-work, for which each of them was quietly thankful. 

("Lovely bedtime story, Gaby." "Chop-shop girl should write a novel." "Shut up and go to sleep.")


End file.
